


call me mr. fahrenheit

by Biggus Slickus (crownlessliestheking)



Series: at the end of the day [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol, Awkwardness, Birds and Bird Facts, First Date, Getting to Know Each Other, Humanstuck, M/M, Polyamory, Relationship Negotiation, Spades Slick: Be good at matchmaking your two not-boyfriends, The Author's Self-Indulgence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:00:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25140505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownlessliestheking/pseuds/Biggus%20Slickus
Summary: You can’t tell if he’s bothered. Point of this whole outing is that you’re gonna get better at telling, you figure, but you’re not too optimistic about it. Not that Slick’d gone and said that, because he’s a slippery fucker who just shoved Strider at you and said you two fuckers get out of my house and don’t come back until late if you don’t want a knife in each of your guts. You don’t think he’d stab both of you over that, but you didn’t get to say that ‘cause the door just got slammed in your face and you’re not the kinda jackass who’ll talk to wood. Strider is, but you got the feeling he hadn’t seen this one coming, so he kept quiet and only stared at it for a long moment before he turned around and started walking.
Relationships: Diamonds Droog/Dirk Strider, Diamonds Droog/Spades Slick, Diamonds Droog/Spades Slick/Dirk Strider
Series: at the end of the day [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1821157
Comments: 5
Kudos: 12





	call me mr. fahrenheit

**Author's Note:**

> It really does just keep happening, huh.  
> Me: Yeah, maybe I'll do a prequel.  
> Me, five minutes later: But how about Droog and Dirk's first 'date' and how painfully awkward it is.

You don’t know how you let the boss talk you into this.

Sure, he’s the boss, and you’ll do what he tells you ‘cause that’s your job and you like being good at your job- sue you for having some kinda professional pride. But the thing is, this ain’t work. This is the complete fuckin’ opposite of work and you’re not gonna admit it to anyone other than yourself, but you’re outta your depth here. It’s not often you feel like you’ve bitten off more than you can chew, but you know what it feels like.

(Actually. Thinking about it. You only ever feel that type of way when it has to do with Slick. Boss is the only one who can leave you that kinda off-kilter like the rug’s been yanked right out from under your feet, and you hate it sometimes but always go along with it ‘cause he’s him and you’re you, that’s what you are.)

You cut a glance sideways at the guy walkin’ right next to you, quiet as anything. Puts you on edge sometimes, the way you never hear his footsteps. Ain’t like Clubs, who’d be good at sneaking if he didn’t leave a hell of a trail of chaos behind him. Ain’t even like you, and you’re real good at keeping quiet and lurking. That’s staying in one spot and waiting for the poor fucker you’re after to show up and have a nasty surprise. No, this is seeing before hearing and not really registering it, and you know if you weren’t looking at him and if you weren’t aware that you two were going somewhere together, you’d find it real easy to think you were walking alone.

It takes you a while to register that what you’re feeling is _awkward_ , and you’ll tell anyone you ain’t a big fan of it. It takes you a little longer to realize that you’ve just been following him and you have no idea where it is he’s going. You think it’s somewhat important to know where you’re fuckin’ going, so you ask, and he tells you he’d been headed to the park and then that the best laid plans of mice and men will still happen despite Spades Slick’s best efforts.

You doubt the boss was going to that much trouble to derail any of his plans, and you tell him that. He says sure, but Slick likes making things a little more complicated than they need to be especially if it gets on his nerves, and you think that over for a minute before you nod. He doesn’t do that with you, you say, but you add that it’s more to do with the fact that work doesn’t need to be more complicated than it is and the job comes before fucking with you. As it should, Strider says, and you might actually respect him a little bit more for that. He says that he’d draw the line if Zahhak went and fucked him over on a project, and you- draw a blank on what that project would be until context clues kick in.

You work together, you say, and wait for the explanation. He just nods and says yeah, sort of. Cagey. You look at him slantways as you walk, and he relents and tells you that they’ve got workshop space kind of close by and his dad’s Strider’s supervisor, that they’re probably friends but that it’s the kind of friendship where they build robots and have the robots destroy each other, and also sometimes spar.

Spar, you repeat, and raise an eyebrow, because you know what Zahhak looks like and you’re decently sure you’ve seen him bend mental with his bare fuckin’ hands. Yeah, friendly sparring, he says, like that’s any kind of an explanation. Looks good shirtless, he says, and you know it’s probably just to see how you respond but you don’t stop yourself from scowling at him.

You tell him that you didn’t need to know that and you don’t need more than the implication, and he says that Slick hadn’t gotten it either. He says that he just appreciates dudes who can snap him in half, and you tell him that makes sense seeing as he has no damn sense of self-preservation.

He has plenty, he says, though you don’t think he’s any kinda offended by the accusation. You’re pretty damn sure that messing around with the Crew in any kinda way negates that, and you say that. He just shrugs, and says Slick’s not gonna hurt him without reason, that you’re not gonna hurt him without Slick giving a reason, and that he can take care of himself besides, although if CD decides to blow him the fuck up there’s not really much he or the surrounding city block can do about it anyway.

You’re quiet as you digest that. You figure he’s not lying about taking care of himself given the fact that he and Boxcars still stare each other down and you had to figure out how the fuck to patch up fractured ribs from that one, but you’ve never seen him with a weapon before. You say that you know he can fight but how often does he when it’s not a brawl. Or a spar, you add.

Why do you want to know, he asks and his voice is flat as anything even if he doesn’t stop walking. You note that for later and say you’re just making conversation. You say that maybe he should learn how to use a gun. He says that he’s shit at it, and you tell him you’re surprised to hear him admit to being shit at anything. You also wonder when the fuck did anyone try to teach him how to shoot that he knows he’s shit at it but you don’t voice that. That’s fair enough, he says, and look, we’re at the park now.

Turns out he can walk real fast when he wants to, never mind that you two are nearly the same damn height but you have trouble fuckin’ keeping up until he settles himself onto a bench. There’s enough room so you sit next to him except it ain’t his messy, indolent sprawl ‘cause you have good posture thank you very much. He takes a bag out of his coat pocket and keeps quiet in a real pointed way that keeps you from saying anything else for a minute or so.

You watch as he scatters out a handful of birdseed onto the stones in front of you. A motley crew of birds descend immediately, and you give the feathery bastards a gimlet eye. If any of these shit on my suit, you say, and leave the rest of that threat unsaid because you know he can fill in the blanks.

Chill, bro, he says, like always, and drops the bag on the bench between the two of you. There’s what, half a foot between you, plenty of room for it. He’s got his legs stretched out in front of him. Least he scattered the seeds on the side of himself opposite where you’re sitting. It’s when they’re flying that you gotta look out for it, he tells you. Statistically speaking-

No, you cut him off, you don’t want to hear about the statistics he’ll pull outta his ass. Maybe another time, you say, realizing that’s sharper than you meant to sound, but he doesn’t seem too bothered by it. Least, you can’t tell if he’s bothered. Point of this whole outing is that you’re gonna get better at telling, you figure, but you’re not too optimistic about it. Not that Slick’d gone and said that, because he’s a slippery fucker who just shoved Strider at you and said you two fuckers get out of my house and don’t come back until late if you don’t want a knife in each of your guts. You don’t think he’d stab both of you over that, but you didn’t get to say that ‘cause the door just got slammed in your face and you’re not the kinda jackass who’ll talk to wood. Strider is, but you got the feeling he hadn’t seen this one coming, so he kept quiet and only stared at it for a long moment before he turned around and started walking and grumbling something about _legwork_ whatever the fuck that means.

I’ll quit it on the numbers, then, he says, but my point was more along the lines of no one’s gotten shat on by a bird that was on the ground five feet away from them.

And you’re not gonna be the first, you tell him. But you throw a couple of seed at the birds anyway. You wonder if this is a thing he normally does, so you decide to ask.

Yeah, he nods, like he’s pleased you’ve asked a question. Seeds’re better for them than white bread, he says. Not like he gives a shit about what the pigeons eat because fuck knows if anything can actually kill a pigeon for good, but there’s crows and ravens about and sometimes ducks in the pond that’s nearby. You can’t really see the pond in the dim evening light, but you know the one. You don’t think any duck would be in there if they didn’t have to be- it’s green and stinking and an eyesore that you ignore like most people with any sense.

You like crows and ravens, you say, and it’s more a statement than anything else. You don’t know shit about birds, why would you know about birds beyond what’s normal, but you wonder why he knows about them. You’re still not used to asking him any questions.

(Just fuckin’ ask, Slick’d said, and rolled his eyes so hard they probably wanted to make a damn break for it outta his skull. He answered my questions, he’d said, and you’d wanted to know why’s that a thing to sound so smug about, and he’d answered that it was ‘cause he wasn’t a fuckin’ dumbass and knew how to ask questions. You had to concede that one but not because you’re a dumbass but ‘cause he does know how to get people to tell him what he wants to know, even if you ain’t gonna say you think his usual approach to questioning wasn’t what went down.)

Corvids are smart, he tells you. My brother likes ‘em a lot. He likes seagulls, he adds, and says they’re flying rats worse than pigeons but they’re tenacious and he appreciates that. He gives you a sideways sorta look, and asks if you’ve seen that thing online about the guy who’s feeding the seagulls fries to attract a crowd at a train station before flinging the container of fries into the train before the doors close.

You haven’t seen it because you don’t do that shit online but you tell him you wouldn’t be surprised if he’d done it and gotten the shit kicked outta him for it.

He says not yet but damn if it wouldn’t be hilarious.

Not if you’re on the train, you tell him. He tells you not to be on the train, like you’re the kinda guy who takes public fuckin’ transport or goes to the beach. Instead of saying that, you just say instead that you’ve never fed birds before, you don’t really see the point.

He just says that it’s nice to fling seeds at birds and do some thinking, and that maybe somewhere in their brains the birds are grateful but he doubts it. You remind him that corvids are smart and if they can hold a grudge they’re probably capable of gratitude, and you don’t bother to not be snide about it.

He says sure, but collecting crow debts in exchange for food is a little off the deep end, even for him. He says the whole animal familiar thing is more his aunt’s pace and even then she’s more of a black cat kind of woman.

You’ve only ever heard him talking to her, snippets of her voice over the phone, and you gotta agree that she does sound like a black cat kinda woman. He asks if you’re allergic to cats and you say no you don’t have any allergies and he nods a little and lets the topic drop.

Another handful of birdseed, and you’re realizing that the awkwardness hasn’t gone away at all but at least the birds are there fighting over fuckin’ seeds as a distraction, so maybe there’s something about feeding ‘em that’s worth doing.

A little while later you ask him if he minds you smoking because you’ve got some manners and ain’t just gonna light up if he hates it, and you’re surprised when he pulls out an old pack of cigs himself. Guilty pleasure, he admits. More of a stress thing, actually, he says.

Turns out they’re menthols. You don’t think you’re surprised about that. You get one of your own smokes out of their case- you hand roll them, he asks, and you nod yes, but you’ll buy if you’re running short-, and strike a match to light one. You hesitate, before holding the flame out to him. It’s still cupped in your hands.

Strider looks at you for a moment, before leaning in, letting the tip of his flare up.

Thanks, he says, after the first drag. You’re welcome, you say back, and the silence is more companionable now and you feel less like someone’s just clocked you with a crowbar to the back of the head.

So this is stressful, you say, and look at him slantways to see how he reacts as you exhale a small cloud of smoke.

Strider eyes you back, except he turns his head some so you still can’t see his eyes even from the side, and he says that aren’t all first dates stressful, and you have to keep your mouth shut for a whole fuckin’ moment because is that what this is.

You ain’t too composed as you say that, and you don’t know what kinda expression is on his face as he stares at you properly now but you figure it’s something between are you fuckin’ kidding me and is this guy an idiot and _is_ it a first date am I the idiot. Maybe it’s all three. You sure think that’s the kinda look you have on your face.

He says maybe, if you want it to be, which covers his ass and doesn’t answer your question at all.

You don’t like equivocating, you tell him. Is it or isn’t it.

He says he’s not equivocating and that dates usually have more planning don’t they, not Slick just shoving you two together like a toddler with two dolls being all and now kiss. He says that all the same this is the first time the two of you have spent any real time alone together and that given the arrangement it probably would count as a date even if it isn’t romantic. He says that in the end it depends on your definition of a date, and gives you the kinda challenging look that’d have the boss spitting mad and getting out a knife.

You say you don’t know because you’ve never been on a first date before have you let alone any kinda traditional date.

That’s sad, he says, caustic enough to make your teeth grit together. But then he goes on and he says you’ve probably been on plenty and just never knew it so is it a date if you don’t call it a date?

You ask him what the fuck he’s talking about, of course it ain’t a date if you don’t call it one, and he says how often have you and Slick been alone together over the years and not on the job, and you tell him that you’re always on the job when the boss is there, and he just gives you this look and shakes his head a little.

He says that Spades’d never call it a date, and you say that’s true enough. He says that you wouldn’t have pushed for anything more than what you already had, and you say that’s true, too. He says that minus the sex what else has changed between you and the boss, and you say nothing. He waits a beat, and tells you that sometimes it’s a date even when you don’t realize it but not an official one.

He says that this isn’t an official one either, before you can ask, and you don’t know what to think about that.

He says that either you gotta ask him or he’s gotta ask you for it to be official.

You’re running through the times you’ve had the unspoken conversations with the boss about staking a place out together, going somewhere together, just the two of you for business of course ‘cause what else would it be.

Strider, you’re coming to realize, is fuckin’ insufferable about being right. You hope he’s right a lot less than he thinks he is.

You tell him that you’re not gonna be asking him anytime soon, and he shrugs and says he’s fine with that. You don’t know if that means that he’s gonna ask you or if he doesn’t expect you to ask because you’re not the type to or if this has already gone pear-shaped without your realizing it. You figure it’s not the last one. Usually things going pear-shaped is more fuckin’ eventful than this.

Strider takes the bag of seed from between you and pours out a handful, tosses it out. You tell him he’s hit one of the black ones in the head. He says it’s probably forgivable because they got hit with food. You tell him it depends on the food, doesn’t it, ‘cause you sure wouldn’t forgive ice cream or some shit hitting you in the head. Or hitting your suit. He tells you that anything sticky or wet would be all hells of unfortunate, but birdseed’s probably easy enough to get off. He also tells you that when he’d said corvids are smart he’d meant they were smart enough to hold grudges, and did you know that groups of crows were called murders and groups of ravens are unkindnesses?

You did know the first one and you tell him that he’s got no real reason for knowing the second. He shrugs and says that he hadn’t been kidding when he said his brother liked them a lot. He asks if you have a favorite animal and you say that’s an inane fuckin’ question if you’ve ever heard one. He presses the matter so you reluctantly admit a fondness for crocodiles, and he says he shouldn’t be surprised by that, but that they’re neat. He asks if you can tell the difference between crocodiles and alligators and you ask him back if he’s a zoologist or some shit because animal-themed questions weren’t what you were expecting from this.

He says he’ll take that as a no, and you breathe out a harsh stream of smoke in response so as he doesn’t know he’s getting under your skin. He adds, casual, that he thinks horses are pretty neat. You tell him you’re not even a little surprised by that. You tell him that the amount of horse decals and pony-themed items in his wardrobe give it away. He says you haven’t seen his computer background then and you decide immediately that you don’t want to. You tell him that, and he tells you he has no idea what reason you’d have for either wanting to or seeing it. It’s a sad day when you find out a decent guy has no appreciation for the equine, he says.

Since when are you a decent guy, you want to know. He blows out a wobbly smoke ring, gives it a distinctly annoyed look, and tells you that Slick likes you for a reason. You say that the reason is that you’ve always had his back, that you’ve been a band of exiles together as far back as you know, that you wouldn’t follow anyone else’s orders except your own anyway but you don’t mind following the boss. He says he knows that. He says that the point is he’ll trust the boss’s judgement on you, and he says that you haven’t hurt him yet and he doesn’t think you will without a reason. You say that’s fair enough but that he’s only proving your point about self-preservation and the lack thereof. He tells you again that he’s got just enough seeing as he’s alive isn’t he.

Could just be luck, you say. You blow a smoke ring in his direction, and it’s damn near perfect. He leans back to let it drift past him undisturbed, and tells you that it’s not luck so much as a decision that he didn’t make, and you wonder what the fuck that even means but you don’t ask ‘cause you doubt he’s gonna answer.

Anyway, he says, decent wasn’t a judgement on morality or ethics, just that you’re decent to spend time with and not a huge pain in the ass. You tell him that he’s a huge pain in the ass and the corners of his mouth twist in what you think is a smirk. You tap your smoke with a finger, let the ash fall to the ground. You want to know if he thinks the boss is decent, and he tells you that sure, except Slick’s harder to pin down about it. You say that he must have a fucked-up view of either morality or ethics or both to call either of you decent, and he says it’s not about that and anyway, occupational hazard on your parts. You point out that you chose this job, and he nods like it’s a concession but you know he ain’t the kinda guy to just concede even if he’s quiet for a moment.

He asks you why you chose this job, then, and you narrow your eyes at him a little ‘cause you kinda suspect there’s a catch to the question except nothing’s forthcoming, and he’s just waiting for you to answer. You blow another smoke ring before you answer, and you tell him it wasn’t a choice so much as it just happened and you didn’t want to stop it from happening so you didn’t. You tell him that someone with a cool head needs to be in the Crew and that’s you and why should you leave when you fit right in and they need you and you’re damn good at what you do. You tell him that Slick never asked you but he didn’t need to, either.

He says alright, and you say is that it, is that all, ‘cause you’ve just talked a whole lot and usually he’s got plenty to say. He tells you yeah, that’s all, he just wanted to know and you answered his question fine.

Strider looks at you and he has to see something on your face but you don’t know what, ‘cause he relents and says the reason why someone does what they do is more important than what they do sometimes. You ask him if he’s trying to make excuses for you, and he says no, he just wanted to know. He says that Slick told him he does it ‘cause he’s good at it and he likes it so why not, and he says that he didn’t much like that reasoning but he could understand it which is the important part. It’s not about an excuse, he says. He wasn’t expecting to hear you were doing this to save some long-lost family or because you were brainwashed by an evil organization because this isn’t exactly a movie, now is it. You don’t get it but you ain’t the kinda guy to pick things apart and know how they work and why- it’s enough that you figure out how people work and what makes ‘em tick, but you don’t need that kinda detail to do it.

You say alright then, and you refuse to admit even to yourself that you’re kinda uncomfortable about it, but you think he can tell ‘cause he asks if you want to go back to his place or eat or go your separate ways or what.

It’s not later, you tell him, and you stand up. Your smoke’s nearly done so you drop it and grind it out under your heel. You ain’t above being satisfied that he seems surprised about it as you start walking. You know the way to his apartment, seeing as you’ve picked the boss up from there a couple of times and you got a good head for directions, and he falls into step next to you again, quiet as a damn ghost except for the trail of smoke he leaves.

You take your time with that, you say, and glance at his cig pointedly. He just shrugs some and says he might as well savor it when he lets himself have one. He says did you know that menthols are more addictive than regular cigarettes and that there’s a discrepancy along racial and sexual orientation lines between menthol and non-menthol smokers, and you know you ain’t the kinda man who looks like he knows that, so you only say no. It’s true, he says, and the brief rundown on the history of menthol cigarettes is a good a way as any to pass the time although you know you won’t be remembering half of what he says.

You figure that’s alright, though. You think you’re getting a bead on how he likes to talk when he’s nervous and that Strider maybe doesn’t like the quiet all that much. You don’t know what to think about the part where you’re the one making him nervous ‘cause normally you’re alright with that, hell, you ain’t gonna lie- you relish in it. But this ain’t that kind of nerves, you don’t think. This is something else.

So you tell him to stop being anxious, as you ascend the infinite fuckin’ stairs to his apartment, and he stops and gives you kind of a funny look and says you sound like Slick, which is no kind of answer and you ain’t sure if it’s a compliment or not since he just says it flat. You tell him that when you spend enough time with someone you start to sound like ‘em though you doubt you said it as insistently as the boss would. He nods, thinking that over.

(Truth be told you don’t know if it’s you who’s picked up Slick’s habits or the other way around but sometimes you think you see a coupla new things he does and now you can trace ‘em right back to Strider. You ain’t sure if he’s a calming influence so much as he’s bitey as fuck with his words and Slick’s maybe picking some of that up instead of getting stab-happy so fast, but that could be your patience rubbin’ off on him too, so it’s still hard to tell. You wonder if Strider’s friends look at him these days and can pick out things he does now that he didn’t before.)

The weapons question from earlier is answered somewhat when he lets you into his apartment. You’re not outta breath from the fifteen fuckin’ flights of stairs. You ain’t.

But all the same you take a second at the threshold to look around, case the place. Not like you ain’t seen it before, but you ain’t seen it with the intention of staying. You decide to stare at the knives on the coffee table rather than the décor because it’s fuckin’ hideous except you’re a guest so you aren’t going to say it. He tells you to take a seat and get comfortable and d’you mind taking your shoes off, and you say that you don’t, so you linger by the door a little longer to get your shoes neatly on the rack there and to hang your jacket up.

Nice place, you tell him, and take a seat on the couch. He’s puttering about clearing up a coupla things but you don’t mind the clutter too bad. It’s mostly papers on the coffee table and you catch snatches of equations and names and they’re all marked in an orange pen, and you realize that you don’t actually know what it is he does to have those.

You say that he can leave the papers there instead, and he just shakes his head a little and says he’s gotta put them in his bag for tomorrow morning anyway, and he does, stowing them in a folder first. You tell him you didn’t think he was a teacher, and he says that he isn’t. There’s more space on the table now so you just set your hat down onto it and comb your fingers through your hair. You should get a hat stand, you tell him. He asks if you’re gonna be coming over often enough that he’ll need one, and you don’t bother to answer that.

Do you want anything to drink, he asks. Because he’ll be having something stronger than water by a long shot, and you look over in cautious interest. You tell him you don’t drink beer, and he says neither does he, it tastes like shit most of the time. He asks if you like whiskey and you say yes, but you’ll want some ice with it. He gives you a look that you can’t parse but disappears into the kitchen and comes back with a bottle and two goddamn tumblers that look proper heavy, and one of ‘em has ice in it. The bottle’s open, still mostly full, and he pours out some for himself and some for you. You watch him drink before you take a sip ‘cause while you ain’t that fussy about what you drink, you know Slick’d get on your ass for it if you didn’t.

You let it breathe before you sip, and damn. It’s good. You tell him you didn’t expect this, and he says he’s gotta make a decent impression, and also that he doesn’t have anything else for mixers anyway. He says this was a gift from his aunt for his birthday, and asks if you like it. You watch him watch you take another slow sip.

You tell him you do. He takes his neat, in little sips, and you don’t know where he learned to nurse a drink like that but you figure all that’s missing from the full fuckin’ decadent picture is him in a suit with a smoke dangling from his lips. You don’t say that. You still gotta take him and Slick on to your tailor. You ain’t gonna admit it but you’ve thought a little too fuckin’ hard about how that’d go.

He says that’s good, and drinks, and you can’t see his throat bob as he swallows ‘cause of the high fuckin’ necked sweater he’s wearing. Come to think of it, you’re damn sure you’ve never seen his bare neck before. You don’t ask about it. You just tell him the knives on the coffee table are pretty nice and is that why he’s shitty with guns, and he says he doesn’t always use knives either although he’s much better with them than guns, and he’s got a set of throwing knives somewhere in his room. You’ve never seen him with any of these, you say. He tells you that the point of a concealed weapon is that no one sees it but that it’s there if needed, and you tell him to quit on the goddamn semantics. You wonder if Slick has anything to do with why he’s got so many fuckin’ knives but the boss ain’t the type to give that many as gifts and these ain’t the kind he usually carries which means Strider just had these before. You wonder if it’s a thing they talk about. You wonder if he doesn’t always use knives then what the fuck does he use. You don’t ask.

He turns the TV on, as background noise, and you kinda figure that he doesn’t like the silence much ‘cause he starts making some small talk. You also kinda figure that he fuckin’ hates small talk, but it’s effort and you’re damn polite and fuck if you know what else there is to say, so you two will hobble right along on this until you find something to talk about as the whiskey works its magic.

What you end up talking about is Slick. It ain’t surprising, he’s the one thing you two have in common for sure, and you don’t mind talking too much about him even if you still mind what you’re sayin’ ‘cause you know there’s some shit he wouldn’t want you running your mouth about. You think Strider’s doing the same thing, and that’s pretty damn decent of him, isn’t it.

Turns out when the boss had said Strider answered his questions, he was leaving out a whole fuckin’ lot about what kinda questions, because Strider recounts a couple and that’s some personal shit. You wouldn’t ask any of that to anyone, you tell him, and he says he knows because you haven’t asked him any of it. You say that’s fair, but you didn’t ask ‘cause you have manners.

You ask him if he’d answer those, if you asked.

He says maybe. He says that Slick didn’t care, so it didn’t matter what he answered, and he doesn’t like lying either. He pauses, and says no, it’s not that Slick didn’t care, it’s that it didn’t matter because he’s seen worse, done worse, had worse happen. He sighs and says that Slick was a stranger so it didn’t matter what he knew or not, but maybe it was just that no one ever went and asked him that outside of therapy so he was so surprised he answered.

So you don’t know why you answered, is what you tell him, and he looks at you for a moment and says yeah, pretty much, but it’s Slick so what else was he gonna do.

Nothing else to do, you agree. It’s Slick. You say a little later that you didn’t think he’d gotten that but he has, and you get a raised eyebrow in return so you tell him that what you mean is that most people wouldn’t take it’s Slick as an explanation.

He says that most people probably haven’t met Slick. They don’t know him.

You gotta concede that one. They haven’t, and they don’t. You don’t ask him how _he_ ended up knowing him. You don’t know what you’d do if he answered, but you ain’t sure what you’d do if he didn’t either.

Strider asks if you want more to drink and you say sure, you don’t have anywhere to be tonight but Slick’s anyway, but that’s later so you don’t need to be all bothered about it. He pours out another two fingers and looks at you, and you nod, you’re happy with that. He’s still nursing his own. He doesn’t drink much, you think. There’s still ice in your glass. There’s none in his. He’s taking his time with it.

You trying to get me drunk, you ask, drinking anyway. It burns going down, but you’re used to it by now.

No, Strider says, a little sharpish like he’s offended by it. You cock an eyebrow up at him, and something you can’t register flits across his face, and he tells you that this is more for him than you, that he figured it might be good so as you two could chill the fuck out a little.

You tell him you don’t think he knows how to chill, and the look he gives you is real fuckin’ offended. He says that he can chill just fine but he’s fully fucking allowed to not be chill in this particular instance.

You take a moment to parse that and then ask him if you make him nervous, because you also remember him dodging the statement about nerves earlier too, even if you already know the answer. Maybe he’s doing a better job of getting you drunk than either of you thought, ‘cause damn if you’d meant to just ask that shit out loud. You don’t take it back, though. You’re not in the habit of apologizing, and you don’t got a damn thing to be sorry for in this case, you think, ‘cause he looks all pensive like he’s giving this real thought.

Huh. Maybe Slick was right about just askin’ him your damn questions. Or maybe he’s done a better job of getting himself drunk than either of you thought. You ain’t too bothered about the reasoning, though, ‘cause he starts talking and he tells you that yeah, you do, except he doesn’t add anything to that so apparently it’s not that fuckin’ easy.

You watch as he drags a finger along the rim of his glass, ‘cause you’re a patient guy and you know Strider can’t leave well enough alone if he thinks he ain’t explained himself properly. Except he feels like he has here, ‘cause there’s nothing else being said, and you heave out a sigh.

You don’t tell him not to be nervous around you, ‘cause you ain’t a liar, and you know what you are. Good, you say instead, and you watch his mouth twist for a half-second before it smooths out into a straight line all over again. Yeah, he agrees, finger tapping twice against the glass. He looks at it for a long moment and you’ll be damned if it doesn’t tell him something, ‘cause he meets your eyes right afterwards and says you know what, he might as well be honest here and put a couple more of his cards on the table.

You appreciate that, you say, though you’d kinda figured the cards were already there.

He says that he hoped you had an alright time, and you consider it before saying you’ve had worse times, and the company ain’t half-bad even if he needs to simmer down and not be so keyed up. He says that’s fair enough, but he does seem to relax a fraction, so you figure maybe it’s not you so much as it was worrying that you weren’t enjoying yourself. You propose this to him, your tongue looser than you might like normally, and he says well yeah, he’s invested in this going smoothly. Smoothly, you say.

Yeah, smoothly, he tells you. His finger’s tapping faster against the glass. You wonder if that’s a tell or just him thinking out what he wants to say. You figure it’s the latter when he starts talking again, and he sounds more sure about it. He says that he’s pretty sure Slick’s invested in you two getting along, and you agree to that and add that the boss’d never admit it, and he nods ‘cause that’s true. He says that he’d known you and Slick were a package deal all along and didn’t want to get in the middle of that, but that he’d also known either way he’d be sharing with you. You tell him that’s true enough, except you’re both also sharing with the job. He nods like he understands and you think maybe he does, but that could just be the alcohol talking. Your mind’s slow and syrupy in a pleasant way.

He’s also invested in getting along with you, except he says it real soft so you think maybe he’d needed the whiskey to say it at all, but it makes sense for all that it’s kinda surprising.

You tell him that you hadn’t thought he was but that it’s good to know. You add that you’d like to get along too. He looks at you for a moment and says of course you do, if Slick wants that. You tell him, equally quiet, that you don’t think it’s all to do with the boss, but that he shouldn’t read into it too much. You don’t know him that well after all. You could change your mind.

(You don’t think you will. You want to know what it is Slick sees in him, you want to know what it is you’re starting to see. You want to know what the fuck it is he sees in either of you, too. Not to say you ain’t real aware of your and the boss’s good qualities, but they ain’t the kind that’re on display, exactly.)

He says to let him know if you do, and tells you that he’ll do the same, and- you hadn’t thought it’d run both ways, and you don’t know what to think, that he might not want you after you spend more time together. It makes something clench tight in your chest, ‘cause how fuckin’ dare he, but it smooths out with another slow drink and the realization that it ain’t anything different from what you said to him.

You say alright, that sounds agreeable to you, and you extend a hand his way.

Strider eyes it almost suspiciously for a moment like you’re ready to hand him a viper or some shit instead of your bare palm, before he takes it. You shake hands, firm. Gentlemen’s agreement, you say. He tells you he’s no gentleman, but that he doesn’t go back on agreements either, and you accept this with a nod.

(You don’t think about how his hand feels in yours, that his fingers are slim and nimble but calloused not like Slick’s are from knives, but in different ways, or that his knuckles are scarred over, or that there’s a few perfectly circular, shiny scars on his hand that look a lot like miniscule burns. You don’t wonder where those are from, either. That would be pointless, and you ain’t a man who wastes time thinking pointless things.)

He withdraws his hand quick as anything, and you’d frown some if the handshake itself hadn’t been the textbook kinda firm and confident. You think maybe he just doesn’t like being touched, but then you remember that Slick touches him just fine sometimes and he doesn’t pull away. You don’t ask about it. You ain’t overly tactile yourself; most contact you get is violent and you’re alright with that.

The mood’s changed, though, and you find you’re alright with that even as Strider says he’ll swap you both over to water since later’s probably coming on up soon, and you agree ‘cause you’re fuckin’ sensible and finish your drink.

The water’s crisp and cool from the fridge, and you get a whole unopened bottle to yourself along with a new glass to go with it, though you notice Strider’s just drinking from a glass you figure he’s filled from the tap. You think maybe that’s a thing he’s started doing for the boss, and you file it away nice and neat.

You don’t really notice when it is you fall asleep, or which of you falls asleep first. It just gets quieter and quieter and the couch is pretty fuckin’ comfortable here, you have to admit.

You wake up to Slick’s hissy voice right in your ear asking what the fuck do you two assholes think you’re doing he said to be back later not to just fuckin’ fall asleep without him on a goddamn couch.

You’re not asleep, you tell him, muzzier than you’d like. You’d never fall asleep so early.

Not asleep anymore, Strider says, from somewhere behind you, and he sounds real fuckin’ put out about it. Did you break in here to check on us, he asks, and you look at the boss expectantly.

No he didn’t break in what the fuck, the door’s still on his hinges, he says, and your eyes instead turn to the window instead. You think he’s small enough to fit through it, probably, and you ask if it’s the window instead and tell Strider he should probably get a lock on that, and he tells you if someone had come through it he’d know.

Slick doesn’t say anything but his glare’s loud enough as he flashes a key that he doesn’t need to. Sweet of you, Strider says anyway, and then just reaches out to haul Slick down onto the couch with the both of you.

He spits and cusses ‘cause of course he does, and says that there’s a fuckin’ bed fifteen goddamn feet away don’t manhandle me and why are we even on this ugly-ass couch what the fuck is wrong with you two drunk bastards.

Strider says that he’s cone sold stober, and that it’s a quote from Howl’s Moving Castle, and did you know that Tolkien hated the auth-, and you didn’t know that Tolkien hated whoever wrote that but you didn’t fuckin’ need to either, and Slick clearly didn’t want to ‘cause he’s kissing Strider to shut him the fuck up, metal fingers fisted in his sweater.

Thanks, you tell the boss, and watch them for a moment, and decide that yeah, you do like how that looks and you want to know if he’d like how you kissing Strider would look. But Strider’s further away so you just lean in to kiss Spades instead, because you can do that now and fuck if you’re not gonna take advantage of it. It’s just you and him and Strider so you figure you’re well within your rights, and he only growls a little bit against your mouth as he kisses back, so you know he doesn’t mind it.

How much did you drink, he says afterwards, scowling over at you harder. He can fuckin’ taste it Droog no wonder you two fuckers are just on the couch. You tell him that you’re not that drunk really, you’ve probably slept the worst of it off and you’re certainly gonna be fine if there’s business you gotta attend to and that’s why he’s here. Strider says that neither of you got more than tipsy but he’ll make coffee to sober you up if you need to go.

Slick gives you both a look that says you’ve not only tried his patience but given it the goddamn death sentence and heaves out a harrowed sigh that probably rattles the fuckin’ floors. No, he says, ain’t no business to take care of tonight and thank fuck for that ‘cause your ass would be useless.

Strider says he bets Slick has a good use for your ass no matter what but if you’re gonna do that then he’d rather it not be in his bed and you narrow your eyes at him for his trouble but don’t ask what business of his it’d be.

The fuckin’ puppet is in your room and I ain’t getting’ naked in front’a that thing, Slick hisses out, and you take a minute to wonder what puppet and then less than that to decide that you don’t want to know because even the mention of it has the boss looking real antsy and you straightening up to scan the room outta habit.

Was a joke, Strider says, ‘cause he’d be participating this time or at least watching, and both he and Slick turn to give you another look, and damn, you kinda wish you hadn’t had anything to drink ‘cause your head’s a little to unsteady for you to answer that one properly and you’re determined to blame it on the liquor instead of these two assholes.

Another time boys, you say instead, a beat too late. But you’d welcome that coffee, you tell Strider, and he nods and extricates himself to go make it.

Slick trails after him probably to watch him do that but you ain’t ever been as paranoid about what you eat as he is, and you know it’s habit anyway ‘cause you don’t think Strider’s about to poison either of you.

There’s quiet conversation in the kitchen that you don’t pay too much attention to- boss is snarling about something and Strider’s answering in arch tones and you’re a bit busy mourning the neat press of your suit since it’s wrinkled to shit from the couch and you know you’re gonna need to take real good care of it to get it up to scratch after this.

At least you had the sense to take your jacket off. You work your tie loose and leave it on the coffee table, just in time for Strider to come back with coffee in two of the ugliest fucking mugs you’ve ever seen, and you ask him why everything he owns is such a fucking eyesore and he tells you that art’s not meant to be censored just because of subjective aesthetic differences and Slick tells you both you shut the fuck up already and drink your damn coffee, so you do, and he settles in between the two of you on the couch, half-leaning against Strider with your arm over the back a couple inches away from his head, and you figure that this ain’t a half-bad way to spend the rest of the night, watching them watch old comedy reruns.

When you leave in the early hours of the morning, you tell Slick you'd be alright doing that again, and he just sneers at you and says it's about damn time and he'd better not have to do all the fuckin' legwork around here anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> Why is Droog more formal speaking in this? Flashback to when they were like 10 or smth and Slick told him to stop sounding like he deep-throated a thesaurus so he listened.


End file.
